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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23050015">Arpeggio</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche'>violetpeche</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Apomakrysmenophobia, Cellist Doyoung, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Erotic Touching, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, Married Couple, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:00:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23050015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When everything felt like it had already gone to hell at 5:30 in the morning, at least Doyoung had his cello.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Suh Youngho | Johnny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>OBSCURE SORROWS FIC FEST</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Arpeggio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/10softbot/gifts">10softbot</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Really happy to be tapping into my Johndo feelings once again! For some reason all of my Johndo fics have melancholic overtones. I suppose they're just <i>those</i> kind of muses for me. This particular fic started out as a very simple idea, and evolved into an extremely difficult character study. I'm somewhat happy knowing this is as good as it could get before I started to go bonkers working on it for so long.</p><p>This story came together for the first round of the Obscure Sorrows Fic Fest. I decided to morph this idea around one of the two words assigned to me:</p><p>  <b><br/><i>Apomakrysmenophobia</i><br/></b><br/><i>n. fear that your connections with people are ultimately shallow, that although your relationships feel congenial at the time, an audit of your life would produce an emotional safety deposit box of low-interest holdings and uninvested windfall profits, which will indicate you were never really at risk of joy, sacrifice or loss.</i></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When everything felt like it had already gone to hell at 5:30 in the morning, at least Doyoung had his cello.</p><p>The insurmountable pressure of preparing for the symphony, for the Bach recordings, for the Intro to Music Theory courses he needed to outline for the impending semester, for the three students he mentored in their family’s enormous mansions across town, for the flowers he needed to remember to order for his mother’s birthday, for the decision to adopt the dog Johnny saw at the Humane Society last weekend—all of it sat on the center of his chest, prideful, like an anvil threatening to crush through his ribcage and stomp out his lungs.</p><p>The clock on the nightstand read <b>5:24AM</b>, and Doyoung peeled off his corner of the duvet to sit up in bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peered over his shoulder to find the other side empty and perfectly made. He let a heavy sigh fall from his mouth as he slid on his slippers and trudged out of the bedroom and into the hallway.</p><p>A single light was on in the living room at the end of the hall, and as Doyoung approached closer, he noticed the stacks of books and piles of shuffled papers scattered across the coffee table, on the ottoman, and starting to encroach half of the couch. On the other end, it was empty, save a spiral notebook opened with a ball-point pen and a small book cracked open and placed face down to save the page. </p><p>Doyoung felt another sigh run from his mouth as he grabbed a stray brochure from a side table and tucked it between the pages. He hated ruining the spine of a perfectly good book.</p><p>“Why are you awake?” Doyoung murmured, voice scratchy with the last bits of sleep. He didn’t look up from the couch cushion to see Johnny walk into the room, but could feel his presence and the smell of a freshly brewed cup of coffee waft under his nose.</p><p>“Too much to do,” Johnny replied before taking a noisy sip. Doyoung looked up to watch him wince while he smacked his lips, then softly blew over the surface of the steam rising from the mug. His soft hair stuck up every which way, and a bit of stubble was peppered across his jawline. It was evident he hadn’t slept.</p><p>Doyoung clicked his tongue, more out of concern than anything. “Did you even come to bed?”</p><p>“No,” Johnny said as he walked over toward the couch. He stopped in front of Doyoung, his presence warm and inviting. “I took a nap between writing my thesis and grading these papers.”</p><p>Doyoung felt his heart lurch remembering his own stack of papers he needed to grade stashed away in his own bag, untouched since he walked through the door the night before. At only being upright and fully awake for less than five minutes, he tried to keep his heart rate down so early in his day.</p><p>He felt Johnny’s fingertips, warmed by his hold over his coffee mug, tap beneath his chin. His eyes followed up into Johnny’s gaze, his eyes looking small and glazed over with exhaustion. He reached up to brush the strands of honey blond hair away from Johnny’s forehead.</p><p>“You work so hard,” Doyoung said as he raked his hand through Johnny’s silkened locks. His hand paused to play with the soft hairs at the nape of Johnny’s neck.</p><p>Johnny hummed and leaned into the touch with a feline smile painted across his face. It’s where Doyoung discovered Johnny carried all of his tension, and every so often he’d like to treat Johnny with a pinch of relief.</p><p>“Why you up?” Johnny frowned and winced as Doyoung dug into a knot on his shoulder. “Isn’t your alarm not for a couple hours?”</p><p>“Couldn’t sleep,” he sighed and moved his hand to rub the pad of his thumb around the soft spot behind Johnny’s ear.</p><p>“Oh, God, not you too.”</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Doyoung assured him. </p><p>It was nearly the end of winter, but the sun was still yet to rise at this hour. Beyond the gauzy curtains that covered the sliding door to the patio, the early time of the day was still steeped in black night. It was quiet, an angelic hour of peace during a time most were still in their beds in the neighborhoods, and the finches and sparrows had yet to summon the sun up behind the Cascades.</p><p>Doyoung patted the side of Johnny’s neck twice before he leaned up on his tiptoes to peck a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. He pulled back to watch Johnny’s sleepy eyes upturn into a punch-drunk smile.</p><p>“Do you mind if I do some scales?” Doyoung asked.</p><p>Johnny took a loud sip from his mug. “I just made a fresh pot of brew,” he said as he leaned forward to plant a quick kiss on Doyoung’s temple. “Why don’t you go grab some and come cuddle with me on the couch?”</p><p>Doyoung stepped away and watched the plume of steam rise from Johnny’s mug. “Tempting,” he said with a shrug, “but not right now.” He turned on his heel to head back down the passageway and through the door across from their master bedroom. </p><p>When they moved into this rental from a cracker box apartment in the heart of downtown, they were delighted to expand their space to include a home office. The shelves were lined with every one of Doyoung’s books he collected through his PhD program: leaves of music theory and pages upon pages of sheet music lined with his meticulous notes. Many were stained with rings of coffee, others pocked with the ghost of pencil markings and highlighters. </p><p>The spaces between all of Doyoung’s books were quickly filled by Johnny’s from his own scholarly program, and then some from his general interest in literature—books from author signings, birthday gifts, his childhood that he’d shipped to and from each place he had called home in his lifetime. He refused to part with most of his books, which drove Doyoung crazy the first time they moved together. He could hardly believe Johnny had enough room in his brain to hold onto that much sentimental value.</p><p>The even more remarkable thing was Johnny had read every single one of the books on his shelf at one point. No—Doyoung swore he had <i>inhaled</i> them. After dating each other for two years, Doyoung noticed Johnny’s insatiable appetite for gobbling up texts, and so he had asked once how in the hell could he read that much.</p><p>
  <i>“Well,” Johnny reached for a book out of his bag and held it up to his forehead. “I just put the barcode right here, and when I blink three times,” he dramatically squeezed his eyes shut and opened them and tossed the book back into his bag, “and now I have all I need to know about ancient Greek stories on homosexual relationships.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Just like that?” Doyoung mused.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Johnny winked, and Doyoung’s stomach did somersaults. “Just like that.”</i>
</p><p>When Doyoung got to the office, he flipped on the light switch, carefully pulled his case away from the wall, then wheeled it out into the living room. Johnny cleared up most of the stray papers that littered one half of the couch and the coffee table. The sight of the marginally tidied space made Doyoung feel warmed by the quick gesture.</p><p>Doyoung settled into a chair with his back faced to the window. Johnny had opened the curtains by the time he returned to the room. He pulled the rosin from its compartment and began to coat the fine hairs of his bow. If there was one thing Doyoung’s decades of seasoned dedication and training owed him in becoming a professional cellist, it was that establishing this second nature-skill, without fail, always recalibrated his senses. </p><p>He was easily lost in the routine, on autopilot as he pulled out his instrument and propped it against himself. As soon as the weight of the cello fell between the soft cotton of his striped pajama bottoms and against his abdomen, he looked up to watch Johnny lick the tip of his finger to turn the page of his book. Doyoung gently placed his right hand around the frog of his bow, his left hand in first position, and let go.</p><p>Whenever Doyoung sat down to play the cello, it wasn’t as easy as riding a bicycle, but rather it was as easy as <i>breathing</i>. The act morphed into him, like a vital organ he fed and nurtured starting at age four. Over time, every swipe of his bow across the strings amounted to the person he had become today: no longer a prodigy, but into a world-class soloist; a mentor; a figure leading the legacy and future of classical music. </p><p>When Doyoung acknowledged the reality of his status around age sixteen, his parents praised him for not only his skill that pushed him to continue, but took the most pride in his ability to easily rub elbows with affluent communities.</p><p>“Entertain the wealthy with your gift,” his mother said, “and they will treat you well. They will guide you. You will be set for life.”</p><p>Doyoung met her words with skepticism up until he was granted acceptance and a full scholarship to the Juilliard School. He was scared, nervous to commit to the opportunity, but through the encouragement of his parents and his tutor, he was convinced life as a cellist was no longer a hobby, but a vocation. </p><p>As soon as Doyoung stepped foot onto Juilliard, he was met with high expectations from his instructors. They were divided into two camps: those who held Doyoung as an example to other students, and those who imparted their jealousy. Granted, Doyoung was presumably studying under the best of the best for his undergraduate degree, but the bitter professors were older, resentful to no longer enjoy the fruits of their primavera. </p><p>“You think you’re hot shit because you get to flit off to Austria and perform with the Vienna Philharmonic,” one had said after Doyoung had asked for permission to reschedule his final presentation. </p><p>He honestly hadn’t considered himself in that way before that moment, but he became so incensed by the accusation, he figured he might as well lean into it. The envy only made Doyoung want to prove to all of his instructors: Doyoung Kim was the greatest cello player of the twenty-first century.</p><p>Even having studied at Juilliard, playing the cello never was something Doyoung just <i>did</i>. It was a conscious act that took root in him early in his life, grew alongside him, and it became embedded into his very essence. He had earned calluses on his left hand from hours of bonding with his instrument as he squinted through pages of sheet music.</p><p>With each of these quiet moments in which he let his brain turn off into a trance-like meditation, Doyoung could shut out the anxious thoughts and let his muscle memory take over. His eyes closed as his mind wandered.</p><p>He held his first solo performance with an orchestra at seventeen, and from there, it felt like every other month he was sent off to another orchestra to perform a new solo concert. His hands quickly memorized books of sheet music, his left hand melding into the neck of his instrument and the right around the frog of his bow, becoming one with each note and direction. </p><p>He would practice until his left hand dug into the strings. At the end of most sessions, his fingertips looked cracked and dry around the lines where he pressed into the neck and danced up and down the strings. When his calluses would soften, the tips of his fingers ached. As a result, he’d play more, and more, and more, until he would manage to find a balance between pressing into them just right, and the notes would wail with a delicate passion Doyoung was satisfied to hear.</p><p>Life as a twenty-something classical music superstar was even more grueling. His schedule ramped up as soon as he walked his undergraduate commencement. Life became gala, after gala, after gala, every other week, for charity, for governments, for European royalty. He was signed onto recording for film soundtracks, rearrangements from up-and-coming <i>and</i> renowned composers. Taking his mother’s advice, he never said no to an opportunity. </p><p>“You could die tomorrow,” she said. “Or worse; lose your hands.”</p><p>As much as Doyoung loved to see the world and be put up in five-star hotels and served rich, delicious food, the schedules undoubtedly took a toll. He was young, hardworking, and stubborn in his own right by his pride to be the best at all he achieved. </p><p>Shortly after Doyoung married Johnny, and life started to comfortably slow down for the two of them to settle into their married life, Doyoung’s worst fears started to come true.</p><p>Doyoung cracked one eye open as he started to play the opening notes of a Bach Cello Suite. Johnny sat with his glasses perched on the end of his nose with strands of rich, honeyed hair fallen over his face. Johnny chewed on the top of a ballpoint pen as his eyes furrowed at the page in front of him, presumably lost in his own thought in spite of how loud the cello was only feet away from him on the other side of the room.</p><p>Between one sweep of the bow across the strings, and a quick transition to the next, Doyoung felt his left hand freeze. He executed the notes perfectly, a composition he could play in his sleep, but the hand that danced across the strings felt it had been left outside in the snow for hours on end. </p><p>It started with his left hand. At first, he felt a strange, tingling sensation whenever he would wake up in the morning. After a while, he could hardly feel the tips of his fingers after he’d play. The callouses had ceased long ago—after he had honed in on his craft and found the delicate pressure needed to gracefully deliver the right notes.</p><p>The trouble started when his hand started to feel like a ghostly appendage—he could hear himself make the notes out of instinct, but he could not feel his placement across the strings on his pointer and middle finger. The weight of the neck that brushed against the back of his thumb and palm was no longer there, either, but rather a heavy nothingness registered in his brain. He would stop playing, shake feeling back into his hand again, and resume.</p><p>On this particular morning, it happened again. His left elbow pinched, and the bow screeched across the strings with an enormous wail that startled Doyoung out of his denial.</p><p>“Fuck!” he spat under his breath.</p><p>Doyoung stopped playing abruptly and threw his bow onto the hardwood floor. It clattered and rolled onto the Persian rug, and a small cloud of rosin dusted into the air. He transferred the neck of his cello into his right hand and stared down at his left. As he watched his hand curl into a fist and open again, he wanted the earth beneath him to swallow him whole, as maybe then he'd feel less pitiful about losing faith in maintaining his skill.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Johnny called from the couch. He had pushed his hair away from his face and glasses further up his nose.</p><p>Doyoung choked back a growl as he squeezed his fist closed and rolled his wrist. Nothing had changed; the non-feeling around the meat of his palm remained alien. </p><p>“Come here,” Johnny beckoned, voice calm and assuring. Doyoung looked up to watch him dog-ear the corner of his book and close up his notebook. He watched Johnny take off his glasses and rub the sleep from his eyes, face soft and made pink by his morning brew.</p><p>Doyoung carefully lowered his cello back into his case, and made a note to clean off the rosin on his strings before the next time he practiced. He shuffled over to the couch and stopped in front of Johnny.</p><p>Johnny immediately took Doyoung’s left hand between the two of his and looked up. “Is it your hand again?”</p><p>He nodded and swallowed down a shuddering breath. He didn’t feel like crying this early in the morning, but managed to whisper: “Yes.”</p><p>Johnny turned his palm up to face him and Doyoung watched him trace lines up and down his fingers. He felt nothing, not even the warmth of Johnny’s own palm on the back of his hand. He gave Doyoung’s hand one last stroke before he let go.</p><p>“Sweetheart,” Johnny started, “the doctor said you need to take it easy.”</p><p>Doyoung let out a loud huff—he couldn’t believe Johnny. He knew the doctor had told him to lay off the cello, and all other strenuous, repetitive activities with his wrist. But life on the other side of this <i>situation</i> couldn’t just come to a halt, not for a second. Doyoung couldn’t remember the last time in his life he spent apart from his cello.</p><p>“The doctor doesn’t have a Bach recording in three weeks,” he spat. “Or a soundtrack, or arrangements with the Boston Symphony Orchestra on the table!” </p><p>Johnny threw his hands up in defense. “Okay, true,” Johnny said. His tone was dampened with a pacifying tone. “But the doctor is trying to make sure you can perform—<i>keep</i> performing.”</p><p>The words rang in Doyoung’s ears—it wouldn’t be that serious if he stopped, but his doctor offered this option a year ago. His doctor warned: if he kept putting stress on his hand, he would need to go through with surgery, and then it would be at risk of challenging the use in his hand again and possibly require retraining to play the cello.</p><p>There was a part of Doyoung who felt invincible when he played the cello. It was the first thing he found in his life that challenged him, even as he continued to master it. Now in his thirties, married, and always trying to balance his vocation with nurturing his own desire to pass on his own passion and dedication to a dying art, what Doyoung craved the most was holding onto that fire forever. He never wanted to lose the drive to consistently outdo <i>himself</i>—his only competition. </p><p>“You’re thinking very loudly,” Johnny interrupted his thoughts. He swiped off his glasses with one hand, leaned into the back of the couch and spread his legs to pat the cushion. “Sit.”</p><p>Doyoung turned around and fell into the space between Johnny’s knees and was immediately enveloped in his warmth from behind. Johnny’s arms wrapped around his chest and brushed the back of Doyoung’s neck with the tip of his nose.</p><p>“Relax,” Johnny whispered against the shell of his ear, and Doyoung did this best to meet commands as Johnny’s arms wrapped tighter around the front of his chest. This close, he could smell the black coffee on Johnny’s breath, and the last bits of day-old pomade. Johnny’s stubble tickled against the smooth spans of his neck. “Let’s take it easy.”</p><p>He tried to shut down his brain, to lean into the moment of being comforted in his lover’s arms. But his mind was racing a mile a minute, combing through every task he had lined up that would be set back by his ailment. He worked for years, <i>decades</i> to become the person he is today. There’s no way his hand was as bad as it was made out to be. It’d go away.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>Johnny took Doyoung’s left hand in his, and Doyoung could barely feel their fingers laced together. He looked down to see Johnny curl his fingers between the webbing of his own. He could hardly feel anything except in the space between his ring and pinky fingers. All other parts of his hand were numb to Johnny’s touch and warmth.</p><p>He curled his own hand into Johnny’s and watched it follow his thoughts on command, like a marionette on invisible strings. Doyoung felt a sting prickle in the corners of his eyes and watched Johnny’s fingertips press into his pale flesh.</p><p>“Don’t cry,” Johnny cooed in his ear. </p><p>Doyoung hadn’t noticed the tears at first, or the hard lump in his throat; he was too busy looking at his hand that started to shake and squeeze into Johnny’s. But a quiet sob escaped, and Johnny’s other hand began to rub soothing circles across his abdomen. Doyoung let out another shudder and sunk deeper into Johnny’s chest.</p><p>“Stupid fucking hand,” Doyoung spat under his breath. “Make it stop.”</p><p>“Hey now,” Johnny said as he gently squeezed his palm again. His other hand made its way under the hemline of Doyoung’s shirt and scratched at the bare skin there. At least he could feel something. “I love this hand.”</p><p>Doyoung let out a small, pathetic whimper.</p><p>“I took this hand on our wedding day.” Johnny brought it up to his mouth to press a kiss right where the gold wedding band slipped onto his ring finger. Doyoung hadn’t taken it off more than five times since that day. </p><p>“I’ve heard this hand perform the most beautiful concertos,” Johnny continued. Doyoung felt the flick of his tongue slip against the side of his finger, wetting the top of his little finger. When Johnny moved the back of his hand against the side of his face, prickled with stubble, and released a soft moan that made Doyoung shiver. “This hand has held mine whenever I’ve felt like the sky was falling.”</p><p>Doyoung dropped his head forward and watched Johnny’s hand continue to rub comforting circles across his front. Smooth, warm, up and down his ribs.</p><p>“Slow down, Keats,” Doyoung said dryly. He felt Johnny’s chest rumble with laughter behind him and couldn’t help joining him.</p><p>“Come on,” Johnny whined, voice low and cracked with exhaustion. He moved his mouth from the back of his hand back to the side of Doyoung’s face and started to leave a slow trail of kisses from his temple, down to his neck. “This hand has given me a life I could only dream of.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Doyoung asked.</p><p>“I love our beautiful house.”</p><p>The house they leased was perfect. It was a quaint, single story with an apple tree in the backyard. They’d spend their winters under a blanket on the couch together in front of the fireplace, and their summers soaking up the sun on their porch over a pitcher of lemonade. It was a brisk walk away from the lake, and in the heart of a quiet neighborhood just far enough out of the city to feel private, but close enough to not have to rely on taking the car everywhere. Doyoung usually took the bus to work. </p><p>When they found the house, just after Doyoung signed on for a season with the symphony and as an adjunct professor at one of the universities in the city, Doyoung felt like life came together so easily for him and Johnny. The state of his hand drove a hard wedge down the middle of it all. He loathed his body for breaking down like this, but he knew it was bound to mend itself. He had taken good care of himself all his life.</p><p>“Why don’t I just sell the cello?” Doyoung suggested. “We could put a downpayment on one of our own.”</p><p>Johnny tightened his arm around Doyoung’s middle. “Don’t you ever,” he whispered. “You’re going to get through this.”</p><p>He wanted to believe Johnny, but as his symptoms worsened at the peak of his career, he couldn’t help feeling jaded. The pit in his stomach felt heavier the more he began to dwell on it. </p><p>“I don’t want to think about it right now,” Doyoung sighed, voice morose. It’s all he thought about these days. It’s what kept him from going to sleep at night, what woke him up in the morning. </p><p>He felt Johnny shift behind him and nuzzle the tip of his nose against the side of his neck before planting a soft kiss. </p><p>“Can I help you forget?” Johnny whispered, words hot against the tip of his ear. The gesture made the hair on Doyoung’s forearm stand up.</p><p>“Depends on what you had in mind,” Doyoung said coyly. He could use a distraction.</p><p>Doyoung pulled the back of Johnny’s hand up to his lips. He pressed a kiss onto the smooth ridges of his knuckles that were warm to the touch. </p><p>“Come here, baby,” Johnny murmured, and guided Doyoung to relax fully into his embrace. “Can I touch you?”</p><p>Doyoung let his head fall back against Johnny’s shoulder and stared up at the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the mop of honey blond hair that had fallen into Johnny’s face. “Yes.”</p><p>Their left hands unlaced and Johnny started to rub the palms of his hands wherever he could reach—Doyoung’s chest, shoulders, ribs, hips—all familiar territory for Johnny to hypnotize Doyoung under his touch.</p><p>Johnny slipped the palm of his right hand down, down, down, cupped it over the softness between Doyoung’s thighs. Doyoung fought the urge to close his knees as he bucked into the light touch and Johnny’s other hand dug into the flesh of Doyoung’s left thigh to keep them pried open. </p><p>“Feel good?” Johnny asked.</p><p>“I don’t feel anything,” Doyoung lied. He brought his right hand to shadow over Johnny’s and urged him to press down again, more intently, as he felt a shiver run down his spine. He was still soft, but the anticipation, the thought of having Johnny’s hands wrapped around him set him on fire.</p><p>Johnny gently stroked against the soft cotton of his pajamas as he filled out beneath their touch. Doyoung felt Johnny’s other hand move from his inner thigh and up his flank. “How about now?”</p><p>The sky was still dark beyond the window, but lighter than when Doyoung first walked into the living room. He swallowed down a chill when Johnny started pressing slow, wet kisses against the side of his neck, teeth biting, sucking, with little licks to sooth down each hiss that fled between his lips. The world beyond the window started to tint grey, the early dawn already in motion.</p><p>The day ahead was set to be a nothing day for Doyoung, and he could have slept in, but instead, being sat on the couch between Johnny’s legs, under Johnny’s touch, was a much better early morning activity to occupy his brain over another nightmare. Doyoung felt a moan bubble in the back of his throat the moment Johnny tucked his dry hand between the elastic of Doyoung’s pajama bottoms and the fine trail of hair beneath his navel.</p><p>“And now?” Johnny asked, just as Doyoung let out a hiss.</p><p>“No,” Doyoung sighed. His eyes closed in sweet bliss the moment Johnny’s hand dipped low, low, lower. His fingertips delicately danced against his groin, the sensitive flesh at the crease of his thigh. Doyoung sighed and made sure to keep his knees spread, and gasped when Johnny cupped his massive hand beneath his balls.</p><p>Johnny fondled them gently, and Doyoung felt his face flush when Johnny brought two fingers to his taint. They had hardly started, and Johnny knew every button to push to get Doyoung charged up. They’d been doing this for years, and yet, each time Doyoung always felt just as surprised as the last time they played with each other.</p><p>As Johnny tapped and rolled his hand between Doyoung’s legs, the other one moved from the center of Doyoung’s chest, up his neck and pinched his forefinger and thumb around his chin. Doyoung’s mouth went slack, jaw lax and opening under the touch as Johnny turned his face to look at him.</p><p>His gaze was intense as he looked down, eyes nearly crossed as Doyoung felt him loosen his grip and slip two fingers into his mouth. He wrapped his lips around them, suckled on the pads of his fingers to taste them.</p><p>It was all a distraction for Johnny to circle his right hand around Doyoung’s dick, now at half-mast. His teeth grazed against Johnny’s fingers as Johnny pushed them in deeper, just shy of the back of his mouth. He let out a surprised moan when Johnny started to rub his thumb over the slit of his cock.</p><p>“And now?” Johnny asked for a third time. His voice went deeper and rumbled in his chest. Doyoung could feel it through the cotton of his shirt.</p><p>Every sensation made Doyoung’s skin feel hot and cold all over. As Johnny slipped his fingers in deeper, he felt the spit the pooled in his mouth begin to dribble out the corners, warm and slick. On reflex, he sucked Johnny’s fingers deeper, mind fading as Johnny’s dry hand gently squeezed at his sex.</p><p>Doyoung moaned around his fingers in agreement: <i>yes, yes I feel good</i>, he tried to plead with his eyes.</p><p>Johnny slipped his fingers free, and a string of spit broke against Doyoung’s chin. He flattened his palm and spat into it on his own and brought the left hand down to join his right, both arms bracketing Doyoung beneath his touch. Doyoung gasped at the warm, slick palm that wrapped around his cock. It wasn’t enough right now, but Doyoung liked it this way: a little rough.</p><p>“Johnny,” Doyoung choked. All the blood had rushed from his head and between his legs. He felt light, airy as his head fell back against his shoulder.</p><p><i>His</i> hands were magic. Johnny slipped them out from the elastic and tapped at his hips to lift them up. He tugged his bottoms down to Doyoung’s knees and urged him to kick them off onto the rug. He didn’t bother to slide his feet back into his slippers, instead he felt exposed with the lower half of his body naked, spread open just for Johnny.</p><p>When Johnny touched him like this, every sense turned supersonic. Johnny’s breaths sounded more realized, with all the clarity of every pant against his neck. The tick of the clock on the mantel sounded slower, like the seconds were drenched in syrupy madness as Johnny dragged each new, delicious sigh out of him. Doyoung shivered at the way the tip of his toe grazed against the edge of the rug as Johnny dragged his thighs open wider and propped one up over his own. </p><p>Doyoung threw his hand down on the arm of the couch to keep his balance and felt his hips shift sideways into a strange angle. Once Johnny’s hands were back on him, Doyoung whimpered. The new arrangement gave Johnny better access to slip a sticky finger down, further than he’d done before. </p><p>“I think you like it,” Johnny hummed against Doyoung’s cheek.</p><p>He felt Johnny press down on his perineum and couldn’t help the moan that fell from his mouth: “Mmmm, yeah.”</p><p>Doyoung opened his eyes to look down at Johnny’s hands wrapped around his sex, now flushed red between his grip. Johnny worked the clear ooze that started to dribble from the head of his cock. The sight of it made him more aroused. He could feel the cotton of his shirt drag against his nipples as he watched the slick gathering between Johnny’s fingers ease every glide up and down his shaft. </p><p>Johnny squeezed around the base of his cock and brought his other hand to rub the head against the palm. “Do that again,” he said, voice rough. “You sound so sexy, baby.”</p><p>At Johnny’s command, he gave into the pleasure, indulged in the wet sounds that echoed off the hardwood floor. He sucked in a deep breath, filled every cavity in his core, and shuddered at the sweet pool of desire that roused deep in his gut. He moaned, each sound climbing higher out of his chest. </p><p>As his nails on the arm rest dug into the upholstery, he threw his other arm up to rake through the freshly shorn hair at the nape of Johnny’s neck. He felt desperate, a need to get a grip onto something, anything.</p><p>“Don’t stop,” he begged. He turned his face in search of Johnny’s mouth, lips open and wet against the stubble on his cheek. “Keep going.”</p><p>Johnny met his parted lips, and the tip of Doyoung’s tongue licked away at the seam of his mouth. It was dizzying, intoxicating kissing Johnny, the quiet sounds he made as Doyoung pulled at his hair to angle his mouth just right against his own.</p><p>Johnny worked his hands faster, and Doyoung cried out, jaw gone slack as he felt the shock of pleasure wash over him. The sticky tip of Johnny’s finger dragged lower, past his perineum and through the faint trail of hair up to his hole. Doyoung’s mouth fell open with a silent sob as the blunt tip circled, teased, tapped. He clenched around nothing, unsure of which sensation to focus on as Johnny slowed his hand around his cock.</p><p>“Is that good?” Johnny asked, tone playful. He kept his finger still, nestled between Doyoung’s cheeks as he turned to pepper kisses against his temple.</p><p>It was good, the thought of Johnny fucking him open made his toes curl. But married or not, Doyoung wasn’t fully ready for this—he was beyond the prospect of impromptu anal, and he didn’t feel like getting up for lube. All he wanted was to let go.</p><p>“Yeah,” he whined, mouth hot and panting against Johnny’s jaw. “Just make me come.”</p><p>Johnny’s movements slowed to just rubbing the pad of his thumb over Doyoung’s slit. Doyoung bit his lip to suppress another moan. He was so close, he could claw Johnny’s eyes out. </p><p>“You don’t wanna play a little longer?” Johnny asked.</p><p>“No,” he admitted. His body felt flushed, red hot with fever all over as he tried to buck his hips into Johnny’s loose grip.</p><p>“Tell me how bad you want it.”</p><p>Doyoung gasped and tightened his grip that was flossed through Johnny’s hair. “Wannit now,” he moaned, “give it to me.” </p><p>Johnny gave Doyoung exactly what he wanted: hand fisted tightly around his cock. The slide was delicious now, wet from his own undoing by Johnny’s touch. Johnny’s other hand kept teasing lower, and finally pressed the dry tip of his finger past the rim. It wasn’t satisfying in the way Doyoung usually has him: knuckles deep and twisting against his walls. No, but the thought, the idea of having Johnny wanting to open him up made him lose his breath. The discomfort was mildly shameful and made him moan louder.</p><p>“Like this?” Johnny said, hand never letting up on his cock.</p><p>“Fuck,” Doyoung whined.</p><p>Johnny adjusted his hips behind him, and Doyoung could feel his hardness rut up against his lower back through the fabric of his shorts. The pit of pleasure that rooted its way into his gut wanted Johnny in him so bad.</p><p>Distantly, Doyoung wished they'd gone about this a little differently. If he hadn't let himself melt into Johnny, they could have moved, he could have had Johnny hooking his legs over Johnny's arms and ramming into him the way both of them like it, but right now, all Doyoung was chasing was his release, and Johnny's vise grip around his cock and his body, grounding Doyoung as he felt himself start to crumble.</p><p>"Are you close?" Johnny whispered, teeth raking along the shell of Doyoung's ear. </p><p>"C-close," Doyoung managed to choke out. </p><p>Doyoung was on the verge of stepping over the precipice when Johnny shifted gears for a second, left hand taking Doyoung to continue stroking him while Johnny brought his other hand to his mouth, spat into it, and resumed his ministrations, slicking the way while he fondled Doyoung's balls gently.</p><p>This was Doyoung's undoing, knowing just how adept Johnny was at playing his body like he so desperately wanted. </p><p>"So come for me," Johnny said, so Doyoung followed as instructed, throwing his head back against Johnny's shoulder and crying out, his fingers digging into the flesh of Johny's thigh as Doyoung desperately tried to close his legs—an impossible feat given that Johnny had his left thigh locked in place, Johnny's hand refusing to give Doyoung any purchase. </p><p>Hot ropes spilled over Johnny's fist, shooting up toward Doyoung's chest, and across the floor. There was nothing left for Doyoung to do except allow himself to feel the crash of it over his body, his bones liquefying as Johnny continued to stroke him through his orgasm.</p><p>He shuddered, eyes rolling back into his head as the last of his release spurted out from him. The wet <i>schlick</i> of Johnny’s hand slowed until Doyoung grabbed his wrist to urge him to stop. </p><p>It was morning now, in the sense a new day felt like it had already begun. The sun had risen, and rays of gold filtering through the window. Doyoung bunched up the hem of his shirt and looked down, beyond his heaving chest, and nearly fainted at the sight of his sticky, white release webbed between Johnny’s fingers.</p><p>“What a mess you made,” Johnny said, fingers opening and closing in his palm. Doyoung would have felt more embarrassed if he didn’t find it so hot Johnny made him come so much.</p><p>“That was all you,” Doyoung said. “Your hands are like magic.”</p><p>“I beg to differ,” Johnny laughed. “But you got me so hot, baby.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Doyoung said, voice going shy. He could feel Johnny’s length digging into his lower back.</p><p>Johnny admitted he came in his pants shortly after Doyoung did. He kept his hands hovered between Doyoung’s thighs and pressed a kiss to the side of his forehead. Doyoung felt the itch from his shirt was sandwiched between layers of sweat gathered on his back and Johnny’s front. The smell of sex and coffee started to flood his senses. </p><p>Doyoung looked down at his left hand and gave it a small shake. The feeling had returned, down to the meat of his hand, and he used it to push himself up from Johnny’s lap to peel off his shirt. </p><p>He walked over to the window, arms crossed over his bare chest, and watched the wind rustle through the trees in the backyard. He heard Johnny get up from the couch behind him and pad into the kitchen to clean himself.</p><p>Johnny shuffled back into the living room and sidled up next to Doyoung’s right, armed with a fresh mug of coffee. “How’s the hand?” </p><p>Doyoung lifted his eyes from the backyard and strained his neck to look up at Johnny. Johnny offered a hesitant smile and the mug.</p><p>The thing about the hand was there was nothing to think about the hand any more. The hand was there, the hand was still a part of his body. He was getting tired of Johnny acting as if the hand was a stubborn child, or a lost pet. The hand did not get up and walk off, go to jail or collect $200.</p><p>The hand was back in business.</p><p>Doyoung reached for the coffee with his left. It was warm under his grip. A shard of light danced off the gold band and onto the window. He looked over to the cello case, soaked in sunlight and propped against the wall next to his chair. He felt his throat close up before he brought the mug to his lips for a loud sip.</p><p>“Fine,” he said, voice falling flat.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>Huge thanks to Mon for motivating me through this project from start to finish (and your BIG BIG contribution to the naughty bits), and Anne's brilliant brains for helping tidy up loose ends.</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/johntographique">twitter</a> | <a href="https://curiouscat.me/violetpeche">curiouscat</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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